


Past Tense

by lavenderiris



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst with a Happy Ending, BDSM, Bottom Sherlock Holmes, Cheating, Drugs, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Feelings, Kinks, Letters, M/M, Porn, Possessive Behavior, Sexual Abuse, Top John, Verbal Abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-20
Updated: 2018-05-20
Packaged: 2019-04-16 15:54:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14168349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lavenderiris/pseuds/lavenderiris
Summary: Without a word, John would drag Sherlock from whatever room he was in and do unto him as it says in The Holy Scriptures, laying with him as man has rights to do with his wife; or in this case - his bitch. That is to say say, he fucked him. He fucked him good.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The following story is absolutely not the epitome of a healthy relationship. This is anything but. It also defies the "Safe, Sane, Consensual" mantra of the BDSM community.

_Dear Sir._

_This is not the story I wanted to tell. These are not the lines I wanted to weave. But that's the trouble with writing, isn't it? I wanted dancing and gaeity and festivals for days on end and what I got was storms, volcanic eruptions and destruction._

_I miss colour._

_Everything is so black. There aren't any differentiating shades of greys of whites or of silvers to occupy my time with, either. There's no light and its all consuming and I miss colour._

_Where has it gone?_

_I miss the flickers of warmth, the yellows and oranges and golds. I miss the way the pinks and purples just burst to life. I miss teal and lavender and aubergine and the way even their names danced across my tongue._

_I miss feeling alive._

_You never control the pen, the pen does as it pleases - controlling the hand that dares call upon it. And I miss being able to think about You without this pounding in my head, without this gaping black hole in my heart and being able to compose a thought without all this moronic prose spouting out from the nib of my pen._

_However, what I can control is my reaction to it, and John - I can do it well. I can scrunch the whole thing up and burn it in an acceleration experiment. I can frame it and make it nice like that ridiculous putt putting around you do for when people actually come to visit._

"For business or pleasure?"

_When was the last time it was for pleasure? Hudders would certainly appreciate the sentiment if I were to display them. Hateful things, guests. I suppose clients at least have some purpose to them._

_The point is whichever I choose all I can promise is that I will never raise my pen against you._

_Best of luck,_ sir _and may your story at the very least find its happy ending._

 _ ~~Your former submissive~~ -_  
_Your former_ partner,  
_Sherlock Holmes_.


	2. Chapter 2

Mary Watson had no illusions as to what her husband got up to when he left the house.  
  
_"Mary, I have to stay at work, there's been a medical emergency and I'm up to my arms in paperwork."_  
  
_"Sorry Mary, Mike and I got sidetracked at the pub - he had a bit much, you know what Mike's like."_  
  
_"Would you believe it? That homeless man on the tube just won't give me a break - he keeps finding new things to talk about and it's just about to break me. It's four times this week he's made me miss my stop."_  
  
It wasn't like he was trying to hide it anymore. John would just waltz into her house smelling of man. Smelling of him. He didn't even try to hide the stains that covered his pants, claiming that the stain was mayonnaise. He lied to her face when she confronted  him about it as he took off his clothes so she could do the laundry, claiming that the reason he already smelt of sex was because he'd snuck in a quick wank at work, thinking about her.  
  
 It was absolute rubbish and the only reason she hadn't left him yet was because she was six months pregnant.  
  
That was another excuse John liked to rub in her face.  
  
"You've got pregnancy brain going on, Mary. There was this lady on the tube the other day, just walked out without her jacket, purse or walking cane, walked right back in - thinking it was her house and took a powder a carriage down."  
  
He'd distract her, lie to her, gaslight her and occasionally go right back out and do it again, often under the pretence of drinks.   
  
One night, he almost hit her. But ended up doing something worse. Much worse.  
  
All she did was ask John a question.  
  
"How does Sherlock feel about you raping him?"  
  


* * *

 

221B was spotless.

The kitchen was clean and smelt as though dinner was near about done. The living room was swept, dusted and mopped. The bathroom and toilet were sparkling and the bedroom was also spotless, decorative pillows primped and fluffed and all.

In fifteen minutes, John would open the door and without so much as a "howdydo" and "assert his dominance." Today, Sherlock was in the living room. He was exhausted and draped himself all over the recently made up lounge for a few moments inside his mind palace before John came.

It always went the same way. John would show up out of the blue and without a word, would drag Sherlock from wherever he was; the lounge room, the kitchen and they'd end up fucking in Sherlock's bedroom .

That was after the first round or two wherever Sherlock already was. It made for some serious incompatibilities between the two but it hardly mattered because Sherlock was full of John and John was busy venting with his own personal fucktoy. The scratches on Sherlock's back never bothered him. Nor had the three times John fucked Sherlock into the table, heedless of of the beakers full of corrosive liquids and active Bunsen Burners seeping into and wearing their skins. There were more than a few scars on Sherlock and a few more John related ones were of no bother.

John had this habit after they fucked though that did actually bother Sherlock. He'd get dressed and leave, not even bothering to shower; advertising to the world everything they'd just done.

To those who hadn't just heard the whole thing, anyway.

His eyes flew open and Sherlock saw what he'd already felt: 190 pounds of ex army Doctor preying open Sherlock's blue robe. He'd been prepared having done his chores naked and putting on his favorite dressing gown simply so John had the pleasure of taking it off. He was always more violent if Sherlock was already naked, declaring him "a whore," and "a greedy little cockslut," which in and of itself was true, but John himself was just a little more off.

John thought nothing of the gesture, already pumping away at the detective's cock until it grew hard and precum had already begun to spill before he even considered stopping. He palmed Sherlock's erection, transferring the majority of the mess onto his hand which he then presented to Sherlock to lick clean before John stuck two fingers down his throat. They were crusty and tasted metallic. Blood. Unsanitary, but not necessarily out of the ordinary for John. Sherlock thought and John thrust his fingers in and out of Sherlock's mouth. He wrapped his lips around them and gently allowed his teeth to resist, to allow the necessary friction against the force of John's thrusts.

Sherlock revelled in the force that John's spare hand had gripped against his throat until he realised that something was actually wrong. He slipped John's fingers from his mouth and put a hand against John's face, calling his name.

"John, _stop_."

Because while Sherlock had called John's name, John had called out Mary's.


End file.
